A Story of What Is
by Meixia
Summary: A post-Existence story where Alex Krycek has survived, but now he has nowhere left to turn except to Fox Mulder. slashy.


A story of what is.  
  
The stretch of gravel before him was never-ending, leading straight into the sinking ball of fire that was the sun. He'd lost track of the day, but he knew it was getting late into summer and soon fall would come, the cold sleet-gray of winter and dead things not long after that. He wondered where he would be by that time and if he would even still be alive. Some gut instinct told him he wouldn't be so lucky.  
  
As the sun set, the air chilled, lending itself to the cold temperature of the desolate countryside and a slight wind picked up. Through the open window, Alex could smell the sticky summer leaving, receding into the evening shade. He resisted the urge to pull over; he hadn't stopped to rest for what felt like days, and it probably was. His body was slowly giving out from exhaustion and sleep deprivation, but something told him that if he stopped he'd be caught and it'd be the end. A ticking time bomb in the back of his mind, keeping tally, his own sense of self-preservation telling him to push on and drive and never look back.  
  
But a weight was pulling him over even as he thought he shouldn't, and soon he found himself parked in front of a small, rural gas station, dim lights flickering inside like a scene out of a bad horror movie. It was just as well, now; he needed to refuel anyway.  
  
Getting out of the car was a harder thing to do. Instead, he simply paused and sat in the slowly growing darkness, watching a big trailer rumble along the highway. A family traveling somewhere for a vacation, he thought, and a somber smile pulled across his lips. Even this slight, small sensation felt out of place on a face that hadn't formed an expression in so long. Alex looked up into the rearview mirror and checked his eyes, his face, to see if they still resembled something human. With his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face, he looked human but still frightening.  
  
I am insane, he thought. It was probably the only truth he'd managed to unearth after all the years of fighting and losing. He'd won little battles, but he never even made it to the war. Alex wondered now if he could've done something differently. He didn't linger on the thought for very long; he knew there was no going back.  
  
Complete darkness had descended. He looked out at the night sky hoping to see some stars, and whether it was because his eyesight was getting worse or whether clouds simply blocked the view, he saw no lights in the sky except the crescent moon.  
  
Everything felt so distant to him now.  
  
He once had the world at his fingertips, even if those fingers were coated with blood to get it. Now he felt displaced, sometimes even misplaced, like a rag-doll someone had thrown around and played with for years and just as quickly abandoned for a greater toy. He never thought he'd miss being useful to the cronies he once worked for; at least then he had a place in the world.  
  
At least then he was still in the game, and everything had meant something, whether it was stealing another day to live or giving Fox Mulder further reason to fight.  
  
He missed Mulder's punches almost as much as he missed the sound of gunfire and the taste of blood money. He had a purpose in those days and whether it was for good or evil never really troubled his conscience.  
  
Perhaps he really was cold-blooded. Mulder, dishing out his beatings and vehement anger, saw only the one side of him. Alex knew he was multi- layered like every other human being, and Mulder simply couldn't see any further than skin deep. All Mulder saw was the bruises, the cuts and scratches left by himself and other enemies, the battered leather jacket and bang! - Alex Krycek, you son of a bitch, I'll kill you for ruining my life.  
  
Sometimes Alex made himself believe it was unfortunate that Mulder wasn't the one to pull the trigger. It should have ended that way, and perhaps because he didn't was why Alex was still alive, and yet dead. He no longer had an American dream to chase nor anyone who cared for him. He even forgot the way to make simple, non-threatening conversation with another individual.  
  
But he didn't feel self-pity. He would never push himself that low. Alex Krycek simply ran out of steam to continue, just like the wreck of a car he was driving. He knew that if the car stopped moving, he would stop moving, and his need would slowly crumble into mere ashes. All the dead in his lifetime were mere bones now in the dirt, ashes scattered on the wind. He tried, but he couldn't recall a single name. Maybe his memory had gone too with the bullet that took out a chunk of his skull.  
  
The healers had fun playing with the reparations afterward. He didn't think he'd make it but when that first breath of air was pulled through his lungs like learning how to breathe for the first time, scorching and exhilarating at once, he was vaguely disappointed. When he had touched his hand to his forehead, a small portion of the flesh there was raised in a pale scar.  
  
He knew nothing would be the same. He wasn't a cat who had nine lives; by rights he should've been six feet underground.  
  
As he sat there in the quiet, empty countryside, he knew it wasn't really an act of mercy.  
  
Mulder should've shot him. He should've made sure Alex Krycek was full of holes, he should've exacted a proper revenge for all the times Alex had hurt him.  
  
But he couldn't blame Mulder for what he didn't, couldn't do. Mulder may have threatened to pull the trigger point blank numerous times in the past, but Alex knew he might as well have been pointing an empty gun.  
  
Some things, you just know. The thought that Mulder couldn't bring himself to kill him was at times comforting. But it didn't change the fact that he was different now, a shadow of someone he once was, not completely whole.  
  
I should fill up on the gas, he thought. I shouldn't stop for too long.  
  
It took him a while to get out of the car, open the gas tank, and shove the nozzle of the pump in. An elderly man carrying a small paper bag walked out and softly bemoaned his aching back as he stashed his bag in the back and got into his car. Alex listened as the engine to the old T-bird coughed to life before the man finally drove off.  
  
In that moment, Alex knew there was no future here, wherever he had resigned his mind to, stuck in a muddy rut with not even a paddle to help keep him from sinking.  
  
Silently, he pulled the nozzle out and let the gasoline splash in a thick stream along the back tire and the side of the stolen car. A little splashed on his boots, and he stepped back to allow the stream to pour into the car and on the seats. Then he pushed the nozzle back into the gas tank and finished filling up.  
  
He paid using a stolen credit card, wiped his hands on his dirty jeans, and quickly stepped clear of the car and the pool of gas surrounding it.  
  
As the flame of the lighter hit the pavement, Alex turned and strode off, hearing the explosion and feeling the heat. He was at least a mile away before he heard sirens.  
  
He pulled out his cell phone, not stolen but still under a different name than his own, and dialed a familiar number.  
  
Waited, breath held, eyes closed, feet silently walking along the roadside and kicking up dirt.  
  
Then Mulder's voice, "Mulder speaking," and Alex thought, this is my life. And he said hello. 


End file.
